"Cece, where do you come from?" I sighed, amused at her loud, made up song involving cake, butterflies, and dinosaurs. She's a hoot, a roaringly extroverted, pink-obsessed, overgrown three-year old princess currently built like a linebacker.
She seemed suddenly displeased. "Where do I come fwom?" She began muttering thoughtfully. Sounded a bit like growling.
Driving around in the van later, she suddenly piped in from the back seat:
"Mommy, 'member when we went to the yeg store?"
What now. "Huh? What is it, Cecilia?"
"The YEG store. And you said 'These yegs are perfect!' and you got them, and then you went to the hand store and said 'Yook at these hands! they are perfect' and got those and then went to the finger store and said, 'Yook at these fingers; they are perfect' and got those? 'Member that Mom? That's where I came from."
(guffaw) Can't make this stuff up. :)
You're absolutely right, Cecilia. You are perfectly made. Fearfully and wonderfully so.